Home Sweet Home
“May this be a safe place
Full of understanding and acceptance,
Where you can be as you are,
Without the need of any mask
Of pretense or image.”
~from a poem about home by John O’Donohue
There’s no place like home. Everyone remembers that line from The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy finally wakes up, surrounded by those she loves.
Home is usually where I enjoy my time as well. And where I like to be. It’s a place I can truly be myself. And it doesn’t surprise me that so many of my hospice patients wanted to go home, too.
That’s the grand part of home hospice; we get to go inside the homes of so many wonderful people. I could tell you story after story of some of the homes I have been in. Beautiful homes, interesting apartments and condos, a tent once, an RV. Well appointed homes in fabulous locations, low income homes, homes that had beautiful exteriors, but full of secrets inside. The list goes on and on.
But what makes the homes interesting to me were the people inside and the memories within. What was sacred to them. What they were really all about.
As any realtor can tell you, a home tells a story. Mostly realtors want you to change that story, remove things and brighten everything up and stage it so a person looking to buy it can see their own story instead.
But in hospice, we see a different home. Because, when someone goes home to die, all pretense is lifted. There is nothing to hold on to, so they relax and are more at peace. More themselves. More honest.
Houses tell such great stories. Even newly acquired ones. I had a patient once who had just moved into a new condo and then received the devastating news of a cancer. So that home became his refuge. And he treated it like one. He changed all his decorating plans. He told me he had wanted to impress people with this grand place in the heart of Boston. But now he dismissed that notion, and made it all about himself. I truly loved it. It was a home I visited twice a week. He had impeccable style and grace. I can still see him lounging on his sofa next to the front window overlooking the public garden. And all of his friends and family would be there laughing, cooking, bringing flowers. Oh, the flowers. Winston Flowers was nearby and the arrangements were fabulous.
And this is the interesting thing. He just had one table. For flowers. In the center hall. He had his sofa near the window. This large, plush, white sofa with fabulous colorful tapestries lying on it. And lots of pillows. Everyone sat on pillows. And that was pretty much it. It’s all he wanted. And the art on every single wall. And music. And I have to tell you, it was glorious.
Another home I visited frequently was in Cambridge, MA. It was a flat that sat above a bookstore. The patient was one of the owners. He and his wife ran it for years.
I remember going to see him for the first time. The flat was expansive. It had the normal chairs, sofa, table. But what was magnificent were the piles and piles of books and manuscripts and newspapers and so, so many bookshelves. They were everywhere. And the patient was in his bedroom, sick with fever, with this old, woolen sweater on that I can still see. And they regaled me with stories of the books and authors and they were truly at home with their sparse furnishings, but surrounded by so many beautiful words and stories. It was so full of wonder that home. She told me books and stories held all of life. And this is true.
I’ll tell you one more home story. This one was in the suburbs of Boston, in a tony, upscale town. I remember driving up this long driveway to a huge white house that sat on a small hill. It had a circular driveway leading up to the portico. The entrance was massive. The rooms beautiful. Each one looked like a picture from House Beautiful.
But the patient didn’t live there. She lived in an adjoining cottage.
Her grandchildren took me to see her. You had to go outside to access her place. They opened the door and let me in and then scampered away to the waiting car with mom honking because they were late for their soccer game.
The cottage was small; a front room, a tiny galley kitchen, and a bedroom. The patient was seated at a chair in the bedroom having her long, gray hair brushed and braided by her homemaker, Julia. I remember her name because she was this large, lovely Jamaican woman with an infectious laugh.
This place was so different from the main house. It had personality and you felt so comfortable and welcome there. Julia made us tea and we sat and chatted. Her cottage had a beautiful garden that she liked to sit and look out upon. She said her daughter insisted she leave her home and come live with them when she started to decline. She was 90 and had lived independently until that time. She told her daughter she hated their McMansion and wanted her own place.
And so she built it. And moved all of her old things there, not wanting it decorated at all. She told me her things were attached to her memories, as worn out as they were, but still lovely. It was indeed a warm and wonderful place.
There are so many homes that I remember. Sad at times, but the one’s that stood out were the one’s filled with love and personality and warmth.
One home removed the furniture from the living room and had a huge table there with many mismatched chairs and a long plastic tablecloth. And she cooked and baked and you had to eat when you went there. Such a great home. You felt so welcomed there no matter who you were. Even the postman would sit and eat. They had so many visitors all the time.
So, what does home mean to you? What story does it tell? What does it say? What memories does it hold? Do you scamper to hide things when people are coming over? Do you decorate for yourself or for some unknown judge.
Do you pick things out to impress others or yourself? Do you have pictures of loved ones and happy memories surrounding you? When you look around, what speaks to you?
They say home is where the heart is. I say, the heart is happier at its true home, expressing its true self. Being able to just be you, no matter what anyone else thinks.
My patients have taught me this.
They are the best decorators.
(Original painting of a home in Midway, Utah by Brian Thayne)